


Miss Williams' Companion

by Sarren



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU, F/M, alternate first meeting, lady detectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22602334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Phryne and Dot meet in a slightly different world.
Relationships: Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher & Dorothy "Dot" Williams
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Miss Williams' Companion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zilentdreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/gifts).



“You must stay with me as long as you like,” Mac insists.

“You are a darling, but I intend to get a job.”

“Doing what? Ambulance driving? Nursing? God knows we need all the good nurses we can get.”

“No, actually. I quite fancy myself as a detective.”

“Far be it for me to put a damper on your plan, but don’t you need capital for a venture like that? And how will you attract clients?”

“I have every faith that part will work itself out. I’m not without contacts.”

“And you do seem to attract trouble like bees to honey.”

Phryne beams. “It’s a gift. But you’re right, I will need capital to get started.”

“What about your Aunt Prudence? Isn’t she rolling in it?”

“I don’t like to ask her, not unless I have to. I’ve made my own way my whole life, and I’ve always managed. I’m sure something will turn up.”

Mac hands her a glass of whisky and raises her own glass. “To Phryne Fisher, future lady detective.”

Phryne raises her own glass, and throws the drink back, gasping at the burn in her throat. “Mac—“

There’s a rapid knock on the door and a nurse peeks in. “Dr MacMillan,” she says. “You’re needed.”

The girl is barely seventeen. Phryne leaves Mac to take care of her and turns to the two men who’d brought her in. The taller one is clutching his hat in his hand, his face creased with concern. The other one looks like he wishes he was elsewhere. Phryne looks at the taller one. “Tell me everything,” she demands.

Later, after Alice has been taken care of, and had a chance to rest, Mac gives Phryne permission to talk to her, although she does keep a firm eye on them from the doorway. Alice is tired but answers enough questions that Phryne is able to get the gist of the situation. Alice won’t admit to any family who can take care of her, but at Phryne’s gentle urging, she comes up with the name of a friend they can contact.

The two cab drivers are still lurking around. The second man, who’d announced his name, somewhat pugnaciously, to be Bert, all but leaps at the chance to drive her to St Kilda. He elects to remain with the cab, however. “Not one for toffs,” he mutters, squinting up at the exquisite Italianate architecture with a singularly unimpressed look.

“Fair enough,” Phryne says, and leaves him to his principles as she strides confidently up the path and raps on the door, smoothing down her dress as she waits. When the girl had said she had a friend who might help her, Phryne hadn’t been expecting such a nice address. Still, her outfit may not be haute couture, but she flatters herself that it is at least stylish and of good quality.

The door is opened by a butler. “Yes miss, how may I help you?” 

“Am I correct in believing this is the residence of Miss Dorothy Williams?”

“You are.”

“Could you please inform her that Miss Phryne Fisher wishes to speak to her urgently? I bring news of a friend of hers who is very ill.”

“Very good, miss. If you would care to wait in the parlour?”

The furnishings are modern but comfortable looking, and the room has a homely feel. The front window looks out over the garden, and there’s a faded green armchair there, a piece of embroidery laid over one arm. It’s out of place in the otherwise beautifully appointed room and Phryne suspects it’s a reminder of happier times that’s accompanied Miss Williams to her new life. Alice had said little about Miss Williams’ change in fortune, only that her friend had come into an inheritance. 

Phryne looks around the room, entertaining herself with imagining how she would decorate it if she’d been the one to inherit a fortune and move into this beautiful house. The cream walls are a bit bland for her taste, perhaps a blue, no, teal, with gold decorative trim. And that marble fireplace deserved better than the uninspiring landscape painting set above it. Phryne could see something avant-garde there, something Cubist, perhaps.

“Mr Butler said you have news of a friend of mine?”

Phryne turns. Miss Williams is a demure little thing, her hair cut in sensible style that would suit a maid and attired in a plain suit and understated floral blouse. The only jewellery she is wearing is a small set of pearl earrings and a gold cross hanging on a chain around her throat. It’s a delicate set, perhaps a confirmation gift. From the way Miss Williams hand strays to it as she looks anxiously at Phryne, Phryne suspects it’s a beloved piece.

“Yes, Alice.”

“What’s happened to her?”

“I’m afraid she’s very ill. She doesn’t have any family she can turn to, to look after her, so we were hoping—”

“Of course I will help any way I can,” Miss Williams says immediately, and then blinks as though remembering her manners, adds: “Oh, please, won’t you sit down?” She waves to the nearby divan and takes the seat opposite. “Mr Butler, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”

“Yes, miss,” the butler says, and melts away.

“Your butler’s name is Butler?” Phryne asks, momentarily diverted.

“Yes,” Miss Williams says. “Please tell me what’s happened to poor Alice.”

Phryne looks doubtfully at the cross. Alice had described Miss Williams as a good Catholic girl and had not wanted to impose on their friendship. Phryne thought rather that she was worried that Miss Williams would turn away from her in disgust, and of course, that was a real possibility, but Alice’s situation was desperate, with no family to look after while she recovered and no job to go back to. Phryne was firmly of the opinion that in desperate times called for desperate measures and had convinced Alice to at least allow her to make Miss Williams aware of the situation.

Her opinion of Miss Williams rises considerably when instead of reacting with horror and disapproval of Alice’s behaviour—as if the poor girl had any good choices—Miss Williams frowns deeply and says, “That man always did have wandering hands. That could have been me if I hadn’t been lucky enough to escape that place.”

“I’m sure she’d like to see you,” Phryne says. 

“I will come at once,” Miss Williams says, rising just as the butler reappears with a large silver tray with a pot of tea and a tray of delicious looking macaroons.

Phryne rises too, although she can’t help casting a wistful glance at the biscuits. The corners of Miss Williams’ lips turn up. “Mr Butler, could you please wrap up the macaroons to take with us?” 

“Of course, Miss.”

Cec is sitting with a sleepy Alice when they get there. Miss Williams goes immediately to the girl’s side and takes her hand, murmuring reassuringly to her. Alice clutches her hand, tears spilling down her cheeks and Miss Williams takes a finely embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and gives it to her. She doesn’t so much as blink when Alice blows her nose noisily and hands it back to her, merely tucking the cloth back into her coat pocket.

Phryne watches as she talks quietly to the girl. She’s both relieved and, she has to admit, pleasantly surprised. That’s one less thing to worry about; she has a feeling Miss Williams will take good care of her friend. She’s more surprised when, after Alice’s eyes drift closed for the third time, Miss Williams places her hand gently back onto the bed and makes her way directly over to Phryne and says, “We can’t let him get away with this.”

“Unfortunately, getting one’s housemaids in the family way isn’t illegal.”

“He should at least know what he’s done, what misery he’s caused. He should have to take responsibility for his actions.” Miss Williams’ mouth presses together tightly in an expression of determination, and her hand strays to her cross again.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Phryne said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do the talking,” Miss Fisher says reassuringly as the butler departs to see if his master is at home to visitors. Dot supposes her nervousness must be obvious. She deliberately unclasps her hands and takes a deep breath, drawing her shoulders back. “Good girl,” Miss Fisher murmurs, smiling approvingly, giving her elbow a quick squeeze. It’s oddly bolstering.

She takes a few steps further into the vestibule and looks around at the ornaments and gilt mirrors. It doesn’t seem that long ago that it was her job to dust and polish them. Her glance falls on the telephone and she takes an involuntary step back.

“Miss Williams,” a voice whispers, and Dot turns to see Miss Fisher gesturing to where a police constable is clearly standing guard over the stairs. What would a policeman being doing here? She looks at back at Miss Fisher, who is now staring at her meaningfully as makes a shooing gesture towards the policeman. Oh. She gives Miss Fisher a nod to show she understands and takes a deep breath.

“Constable?” The young policeman turns and walks down to meet Dot at the bottom of the staircase. Dot looks up at him, her eyes widened, trying to look innocent while her heart is beating fast at the thought that she’s deliberately attempting to deceive an officer of the law, and then their eyes meet, and the young man’s own eyes widen. Dot’s mind goes blank of everything except how blue his eyes are, how handsome he is, staring at her with such blatant appreciation that she feels the blush that floods her cheeks and she has to resist the urge to press her hands to them.

The policeman isn’t saying anything either. Dot tries desperately to remember what she’s supposed to be saying.

Then there’s a cough from her side and Dot turns to see Miss Fisher glancing pointedly from her to the policeman blocking the stairs.

“Oh!” Dot says and turns back to the handsome policeman. “Hello,” she says, forcing herself to meet the his eyes. “My name is Dorothy Williams,” she says, stepping backwards to the side. The policeman follows her, thankfully. “I’m here to see Mr Andrews” she says.

“That won’t be possible, Miss Williams.”

“Is there a problem, Constable…?” Dot forces herself not to look as Miss Fisher slips behind the policeman and slips silently up the stairs and around the corner and out of sight.

“Collins, Miss. I’m afraid Mr Andrews has met with an unfortunate… er… accident.”

“Oh, no,” Dot says. She’s not sure what to do now. She feels guilty deceiving this nice young man. He’s still gazing at her admiringly and she’s not entirely sure she should be encouraging him like this. Once upon a time he would have been an appropriate suitor, but now, she’s uncomfortably aware that he won’t be considered suitable at all, and she sees that awareness in his eyes too.

His brows crease. “It would be best if you called another day, Miss,” he says. He starts to turn back to the stairs, to where Miss Fisher has not reappeared, and Dot puts her hand on his arm to stop him before she thinks about it. He does stop and his eyes fall to where her hand is resting on his arm, and she feels her blush rise again, even as she thinks she can see a flush rising in his cheeks. 

She’s just starting to withdraw when his hand covers hers and lifts it away himself, his fingers curling around so that he’s holding her hand. “Can I call you cab, Miss?” he says, and she finds herself turning with him towards the door. 

She makes herself stop and withdraw her hand from his grasp. The constable looks a bit startled, as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. He clears his throat. “Miss?”

“I’ll just leave a note, if that’s all right,” she says, pretending to search her bag for writing implements she knows very well aren’t there. She heaves a sigh of relief when she sees Miss Fisher trip lightly down the stairs behind the constable. “Never mind,” she says. “I’ll send the note around later.”

The constable turns slightly and notices Miss Fisher. “Wait, who—”

“This is my… companion, Miss Fisher,” Dot says,

“Really?” the constable says, clearly taking in Miss Fisher’s air of confidence and stylish ensemble, and then coughs. “I mean….”

“Your car is waiting, Miss,” Miss Fisher says, brightly.

“It is? I mean, it is.”

“What’s this?” 

Dot’s heart sinks. Mrs Andrews is standing in the sitting room doorway. They’ve only met once since Dot’s abrupt change in circumstance, at a ball some months ago, when Dot had been ‘introduced’ to society, and Dot still remembers the way Mrs Andrews had been all that was gracious in her manner, but her eyes, when they met Dot’s had been hard and assessing, and Dot had felt strangely chilled. Mrs Andrews is staring at her now, although her appearance seems somewhat distracted. Dot opens her mouth, but she can’t think what to say; she hadn’t prepared herself for this eventuality.

Miss Williams appears doing a very good impression of a stunned mullet. This must be the lady of the house, her old employer. Phryne steps forward, her hand held out. “How do you do?” Mrs Andrews puts out her hand in return, although the gesture seems automatic. “I’m Phryne Fisher, Miss Williams’ companion. I believe you know my aunt, Mrs Prudence Stanley?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs Andrews says, and her eyes seem to focus on Phryne properly for the first time. “I didn’t know Prudence had a niece.”

“I’ve been living abroad,” Phryne says briefly. 

“Oh, how lovely,” Mrs Andrews answers vaguely. 

Phryne thinks of the wounded, of the men still suffering long after the end of the war. She’d stayed on as Mac’s assistant until the men under her care had been settled in suitable institutions that could provide for their needs. When Mac had announced her plan to return to her Melbourne practice, Phryne had kissed her friend goodbye and fled to the gaiety of post-war Paris, immersing herself into the life of a Bohemian until her nightmares subsided enough that she felt up to returning home herself. She takes a deep breath and smiles brightly as though in agreement, though she knows it doesn't reach her eyes. 

Mrs Andrews doesn't seem to notice. “Won’t you come in?” She gestures into the drawing room behind her. “Could you bring tea?” she asks the butler, who has materialised at their side in that mysterious way of butlers everywhere.

Mrs Andrews pours the tea still with that distracted manner. Her face is pale and drawn and she appears to be perspiring slightly, despite the chill in the late afternoon air. Phryne watches the slight tremor in her fingers as she offers them sugar. “Not for me,” she says, and Miss Williams shakes her head as well. Mrs Andrew drops a sugar cube into her own cup and stirs it carefully with the spoon. She brings the cup to her lips. “Forgive me, but are you quite well?” Phryne asks, watching as she raises her other hand to the cup, holding it steady with the tips of her fingertips against the rim.

Mrs Andrews smiles wanly, the corners of her mouth seeming to want to droop despite her effort. “To be quite honest, I’m not feeling well at all. Now, with what’s happened to John…. She puts her cup down abruptly, the china clattering against the saucer, the tea slopping over the sides.

“Some sort of accident, I believe. How terrible for you.”

“I can’t bring myself to believe it,” Mrs Andrews murmurs. “For all his faults, I did love him.”

“I’m sure you did,” Phryne agrees, but she’s studying Miss Williams as she speaks, noting at the crease between her brows, the faraway look in her eyes, the frown she doesn’t seem to be aware of.

Phryne listens as Mrs Andrews says all the right things, about how wonderful her husband was, really, how she didn’t know how she’d go without him, how he managed everything.

And she watches the crease in Miss Williams’ brow deepen.

Bert’s waiting for them outside, his feet on the running board, a fag dangling from his mouth. When he catches sight of them coming out of the door, he flicks the cigarette away and gets the engine going, not without some effort. Phryne helps Miss Williams into the seat and climbs in beside her. The car splutters and lurches but rattles forward. Miss Williams coughs at the fumes billowing out from the exhaust.

“Out with it,” Phryne says, as soon as they’re away.

“Sorry?”

“You saw something… or heard something, didn’t you? Something that aroused your suspicions?"

Miss Williams smiles briefly at that, but then her brow furrows. “It’s probably nothing.”

“I can assure you, things are rarely nothing.”

“Well, it’s just that Mrs Andrews doesn’t take sugar in her tea.”

“Sugar is good for shock, perhaps she just felt like she needed it today.”

“I suppose. Only she’s always been quite firmly against it. She doesn’t even eat cake, says she doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”

“Hmm.” Phryne looks at the press of Miss Williams lips. “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was there anything else that struck you as odd, in Mrs Andrews’ manner, or in what she said?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like to gossip.”

“Miss Williams! Dorothy! May I call you Dorothy?”

“I prefer Dot.”

“And I’m Phryne.” Phryne holds out her hand and Dot, seeming bemused, puts her hand in hers. Phryne shakes it twice, firmly. “There, now we are friends and it’s perfectly acceptable to share confidences.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Now is no time to stand on scruples, Dot. We may be looking at murder!”

“Murder?”

“When I was innocently glancing around upstairs I happened to see a chalk outline on the bathroom floor, the chalk outline of a man who may very well have died contorted in agony, such as, for example, if he’d ingested a poison of some kind.”

“Poison!”

“Indeed. So you see, anything you say may be of relevance to our case.”

“What do you mean, 'our case'?"

"Well now, Dot. As it happens, I'm a detective. That's why when I saw that constable steadfastly standing guard over the stairs I intuited that something must have occurred to warrant the attendance of the police. Hence my desire to have a quick look around upstairs. You provided a most effective distraction. Well done, by the way, Dot. I couldn't have done it without you."

Phryne watches the blush rise in the girl's cheeks. "I'm glad I could help," she says. There's admiration in her eyes when looks at Phryne. "I didn't know ladies could be detectives."

"We don't know what we can do till we try. I wouldn't mind a partner, if you're interested. You're clearly very observant, and that was quick thinking back at the stairs, there."

Dot stares at her open-mouthed. "I couldn't," she says, but she doesn't sound certain.

"Well, give it some thought," Phryne says, gently. "Now, you were about to tell me about Mrs Andrews."

“Oh.” Dot lowers her eyes. She doesn’t say anything for a few moments. It looks like she’s thinking very carefully about her words.

Finally Dot looks up. She takes a deep breath. “Mrs Andrews was talking about what a wonderful man Mr Andrews was and how she doesn’t know how she will cope without him…”

“Yes?”

“It’s just, they used to have the most terrible rows. I wasn’t trying to listen… “

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“…but they were very loud, and often didn’t seem to care whether any servants were around.”

“What did they row about?”

“Money, mostly. Mr Andrews’ spending. As far as I could tell, Mrs Andrews seemed to be the one that controlled the purse strings.”

“Interesting.”

“So, just then, when she was making out like she had no clue?” Dot pauses. “I think she was lying.”

“Anything else?”

She watches as Dot hesitates, biting her lip.

“Go on, don’t stop now. You’re doing brilliantly.”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne looks at her.

“Phryne,” she amends. “It’s just, I don’t see how she could love him as much as she said. Everyone knew he had affairs. I remember once she complained that he should be more discreet, that he was making a laughingstock of her. And she knew about the way he was with the housemaids. I’d bet anything she’s the one who let Alice go. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Well, that certainly shines a different light on matters, doesn’t it?”

“You think Mrs Andrews had something to do with her husband’s death?”

“I think we should be careful about jumping to conclusions, but it does look promising.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police?”

The taxi pulls up her house just then and Phryne doesn’t answer, leaping out of the vehicle practically before it stops in a careless way that makes Dot’s heart leap into her throat. She bites back the urge to beg her to be more careful. She has a feeling Phryne would just laugh. 

Phryne sweeps into the house like she owns it, and heads directly into the parlour, where she drapes herself elegantly on the sofa. She looks like she belongs there, unlike Dot, who’s done her best to make the room as homey as she can, but she still feels like an impostor occasionally when she looks up at the elegant marble fireplace, or the fancy cornices in the corner of the room. It’s a far cry from the tiny house in Fitzroy where she’d spent the first nineteen years of her life.

“I believe the next step should be to find out more about the Andrews’ financial affairs, see if Mrs Andrews’ claim of ignorance bears any resemblance to the truth. What do you think?”

Is this confident, elegant woman really asking her opinion? “There’s a Charity Soirée being held tomorrow,” she ventures. “I believe Mrs Andrews is the main organiser.”

“Dot, that’s perfect. We shall go and snoop around.”

“Snoop?” That sounds rather daunting. And not something a young lady should be doing.

“Oh, you know, keep our eyes and ears open. Ask a few discreet questions here and there.”

“It doesn’t sound very proper.”

“Oh, I can promise you that it won’t be,” Phryne says, leaning forward, an eager expression on her face. “Come on,” she says, “where’s your sense of adventure?”

Dot is used to society’s disapproval. They hadn’t approved of one of their most distinguished members dying and leaving all his money to his gardener just because the man had been his batman in the war. When the Spanish Flu had carried off both the man and his wife almost immediately afterwards, leaving the house in St Kilda and the entire fortune to the daughter, well, society hadn’t quite known known what to expect.

Dot’s done her best to fit in, to not raise eyebrows, to be demure and well spoken, but she knows that people still look at her askance. She knows she’ll never be good enough for them and if she’s honest, she doesn’t want to, not if it means a polite young policeman with the bluest eyes she’s ever seen isn’t good enough for her.

“All right, she says and smiles at the surprise in Phryne’s eyes. “What now?”

“Shopping, I think. First thing tomorrow.”

“Shopping?”

“For new frocks.”

Dot looks down at her perfectly serviceable suit. “Why do we need new frocks?”

“For the soirée, of course. Who knows, perhaps we’ll find some evidence we can present to your nice constable.”

Dot can feel herself blushing. It does sound exciting, if a bit scary. And she wouldn’t mind an opportunity to see Constable Collins again.

“Miss Williams, lady detective,” she says, experimentally, and finds herself smiling a little. She likes the sound of that.


End file.
